Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  “Shall I … I don’t know … help you clear the plates away or something?”

  I’m so shocked by this that I lean back in my chair, as though I’ve just been blasted with an unreality ray. Martha, not only noticing the mess, but volunteering to help tidy it away. Trying to be a good girl, or at least do a passable impression of one.

  I glance at Cal, who obviously doesn’t realise that this is an unusual turn of events, and grin. I’m so tempted to say yes, trap her in her own fictitious version of herself and make her do the lot – but even I’m not that evil.

  “Nah, it’s okay,” I say, giving her a raised eyebrow to let her know this has all been noted and filed away for future mockery, “I’ll sort it. That’s what tomorrow’s for. Get yourself off to bed.”

  She stands and looks at Cal for a moment before she leaves the room, and there is a slightly awkward sense of hesitation – like she’s not sure if she should give him a kiss or a hug or something. Either would be weird, but somehow she’s right – it feels even weirder to simply walk out of the room after spending your first ever actual, real-life face-time with your own father.

  Cal correctly assesses all of this, and holds his hand up for a high five. She slaps his palm, and grins at him.

  “You do know that’s really lame, don’t you?” she asks, hands on hips.

  “Not where I come from, mate,” he answers quickly. “It’s the very cutting edge of social interaction. See you tomorrow?”

  She nods, shrugs as though she doesn’t mind either way, and struts out of the room. I listen to her clomp up the stairs in her Doc Marten’s, and wait until her bedroom door slams behind her before turning back to Cal.

  He’s staring up at the ceiling, as though he’s trying to see through it.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got X ray vision on top of your other super powers,” I say, standing up and starting to clear the table. I’d told Martha I’d do it tomorrow, but as I’m now feeling slightly freaked out by being alone with Cal, this seems as good a time as any.

  Cal immediately gets up to help, scraping food and stacking dishes with the simple efficiency of a man used to looking after himself.

  “No super powers at all, Zo,” he replies, shortening my name in a way I usually find annoying – but as he’s Australian, I’ll let him off. “I’m just … I don’t know. A bit knocked for six by her, I suppose. And feeling stupid as well – I don’t know why I waited so bloody long.”

  I nod, and finish off the dregs of my cider before taking the glass and the salad bowl through to the kitchen. Waste not want not.

  “I know. It must be very strange for you. But … well, you’re here now, aren’t you?”

  He follows me through into the other room, approximately seventeen plates balanced on one long arm, and helps me rinse them off before stacking them in the dishwasher. It feels odd to have help with these boring and mundane tasks. Odd, and nice.

  “Yeah, I’m here now,” he says, leaning back against the counter and gazing around the room. “How did that go, do you think? I thought it was okay, but let’s be brutally honest – I barely know the girl.”

  I grab another cider from the fridge, and think about my words as I pour it out. It’s good stuff – I must thank Scrumpy Joe next time I see him.

  “I’d say it went brilliantly,” I reply eventually, offering him a bottle of water, which he takes and absent-mindedly opens. “Based on my extensive knowledge of the magnificent creature that is Martha, I’d rate that a ten out of ten on the success scale.”

  “Yeah?” he says, his face cracking into a huge grin as he speaks. I realise then how nervous he’s been, which is only natural. He’s hidden it well, but seeing how relieved he is now makes him seem so much more human. He’s not a super hero after all – he’s just a man, with flaws and vulnerabilities and tender spots, just like the rest of us.

  “Yeah. Come on. I can finish the clearing tomorrow. Let’s go and chill out for a bit before you leave. I’m sure you have questions.”

  He nods, and we move into the living room. He mooches around for a while, looking at the shells and the books and smiling sadly at the framed photo of me, Martha and Kate on the shelf, before settling down in one of the chintzy armchairs opposite me. He makes it look small, with his long legs spread out in front of him, his Timberland boots massive against the polished floorboards.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t know her better,” he says, gesturing to the picture. “Kate, I mean.”

  “Some people would say you knew her intimately …” I reply, smiling.

  “Right. But that was … God, it was one night. And it was so long ago. I mean, I always remembered her – she was so full of life, so much fun – but … well, it wasn’t a serious relationship, was it? And she never seemed to want one. Not with me, at least, which I don’t blame her for – I was a 19 year old boy who was permanently drunk. Young, dumb, and full of rum, as the old saying doesn’t quite go.

  “She never shut me out of Martha’s life – I’ve always been grateful she even tracked me down to tell me, I’d have been none the wiser if she hadn’t bothered – but it was always made clear that I wasn’t needed either. When I was younger, in all honesty, that was a bit of a relief – I was just a kid myself, wasn’t I? Took me longer than your average idiot to grow up, as well. But now … well. Now, I’m not a kid any more. And I want to get to know Martha, do what I can to help her, be around for her for as long as she needs me.”

  I nod, and sip, and realise that I am a bit drunk. Maybe more than a bit. I tell myself to get a grip – that this is a situation that needs some clarity and clear-headed thinking. I need to be wise and strong and sensible and say the right thing.

  “How did you get that scar on your face?” I say, instead. Oops.

  He laughs, and shakes his head. I didn’t intend to ask, but he actually looks grateful for the distraction. Maybe he wasn’t ready for a big, deep conversation either. He strokes the scar thoughtfully. It runs from the side of his eye to just above his jaw, noticeable but not disfiguring, well healed over, showing whiter than the rest of his sun-kissed skin.

  “Ah,” he replies. “That’s quite the story. It was a shark attack.”

  He might be Australian, but something in his tone makes me doubt the veracity of that particular comment.

  “It wasn’t though, was it?” I say, pointing at him accusingly.

  “Damn. Rumbled. Bar fight with Russell Crowe?” he asks, looking hopeful.

  “Fat Russell Crowe, or Gladiator Russell Crowe?”

  “Gladiator. Definitely. Will you settle for that?”

  “If I have to,” I answer, smiling. “Maybe you’ll tell me the real story some time.”

  “Maybe I will. Especially if I’m ever here and not driving. That cider looks tempting …”

  I swish it around in the glass, taunting him with its fizzy amber glory, before gulping some down in a manner that can only be described as deeply childish.

  “So,” I say, when I’m finished winding him up. “How long do you think you’ll be around?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I can be flexible. At least a couple of weeks, but I can stay longer. I’m … look, I know you’ve been around forever, and I don’t want to step on your toes here. But I also don’t want to be the crap dad, trying to cram a lifetime into a fortnight. She seems … okay? Considering.”

  I let out a small ‘ha!’ noise, and put the cider down on the side table. It doesn’t seem appropriate to have the next stage of this conversation while guzzling booze.

  “She’s … better than she was,” I say, screwing my face up as I try and find the right words. “But she’s not okay, Cal. Not at all. The old Martha was … well, she was a handful, don’t get me wrong. A lot of spirit, a lot of character. But after Kate … things spiralled. Drinking. Hanging round with a new crowd. Smoking. Dabbling in drugs. Staying out all hours. She changed – and don’t get me wrong, I understand why she changed. She lost her mum, and got me instead
– and I’m not being down on myself here, but I’m a pretty shoddy second best, to be honest. That’s why we moved here.”

  “I got that impression when we spoke on the phone,” he replies, leaning forward in interest. “It’s one of the reasons I decided to come.”

  “I know, and I appreciate that. Don’t worry about stepping on my toes – this does all feel a bit weird, but what I feel doesn’t matter. It’s Martha that matters. And although things here are improving, to be frank I need all the help I can get. If we work together, this could be good for her, I think. I hope.”

  He nods, and thinks it through. He’s handling this well, considering everything I’ve just told him about his daughter – but he seems like a sharp guy, with plenty of experience of the world, so it probably doesn’t come as much of a shock. Teenagers probably face the same temptations in Australia, but with less rain.

  “Yeah. That sounds about right. We’ll work together, and see if we can’t just turn things around for her. I won’t over-step, and you can tell me if I do … I’m desperate to know more about her. To talk to her. To be in her life. But I’m also conscious that if I push too hard, she might back right off, like a nervous calf.”

  A spluttering laugh escapes me at that one.

  “More like a nervous kangaroo,” I say. “One that can punch your lights out without a second thought. But … yeah, you’re right. Is that why you sat and let her quiz you all night?”

  “It is. I know she was putting a front on, but she must have been nervous. Weirded out by me being here. She’s gone through a lot of change, and I didn’t want to overload her, come across as the heavy-handed dad – because I have no right to do that anyway.”

  “It was the right call,” I agree. “She doesn’t respond well to heavy-handed anything. So … look, let’s just play it by ear, okay? Stay in touch. Have secret meetings. Code words. Whatever.”

  “I like that idea,” he says, standing up and stretching. Looks like it’s time for him to go, and it’s definitely time for me to try and sleep off the cider.

  He walks towards the door, grabbing his jacket on the way.

  “Where’s your cowboy hat?” I ask, trailing after him to see him out.

  “Oh … well, I left it in the car. Thought it was all alien enough without going full-on wild west around her. That can be our code word, okay? If ever you think I’m stuffing up, tell me to put my cowboy hat on.”

  “What if you already have your cowboy hat on?”

  “Tell me to take it off. We’ll improvise. Maybe I’ll get some new hats. I always fancied a fez, or a sombrero …”

  We’re both smiling by the time he’s standing in the doorway. Both trying hard to navigate our way through a new and difficult situation.

  It’s cold outside now – autumn is well and truly starting to kick in – and I shiver a little. The sky is inky black, dotted with glittering stars that shine and sparkle so much more vividly than they do in the city. It’s so much quieter too – no car horns or wailing alarms or drunk people singing in the street. Just the distant sound of cows in the field, nocturnal animals rustling in the undergrowth, and the gentle tinkle of the water feature in the middle of the green.

  He pauses, and looks down at me. His hair is haloed around his head, and his eyes are dark and shining in the moonlight. I’m not quite sure how to leave this, feeling much as Martha must have done earlier – like it’s been too significant to ignore, but not enough to merit a hug.

  Cal sticks to his tried and tested method, and holds up his hand for a high five. I slap his palm, and he catches my hand in his, squeezing my fingers a little as he says goodbye.

  I watch him walk away, boots crunching on the gravel as he heads for his car, and realise that I feel a bit strange. A bit giddy. A bit uncertain. A bit … warm.

  It must be the cider, I tell myself, as I close the door behind me.

  Chapter 21

  The next morning, I arrive at the cafe in search of some respite. Possibly some cake.

  Martha woke up early, and was downstairs and dressed before I was – which made it all the more embarrassing when she found me standing outside her bedroom in my PJs screaming, ‘get up, you lazy cow, we’ll miss the bus.’

  She just looked at me, one black eyebrow raised in silent judgement, while I scurried around looking for socks and shoes so we could finally leave the cottage. I ended up with odd socks, and my Crocs – a most excellent look.

  She didn’t talk much on the drive into the village, but she was definitely more bright than usual. I want to say ‘bubbly’, but that’s not quite right – she was just less morose. I knew it wasn’t because of my odd socks, so had to assume that it was because of Cal. His arrival had, I suppose, given her something else to focus on other than her own misery, and my shortcomings.

  As she got out of the car, she poked her head back in, and announced, “I’m looking forward to seeing him again. This whole dad thing is definitely not boring.”

  To Martha, ‘not boring’ is probably the highest form of compliment possible. I didn’t get a chance to reply, of course, as she slammed the car door and marched briskly away. Listening to me would definitely fall into the ‘boring’ category.

  I waved her off, looking on as Lizzie dashed over to her, keen to hear the gossip – handsome Aussie dad suddenly appearing seemed to be topping even the new baby – and sat in the car for a few moments, taking in deep breaths, as the school bus belched its way down the street.

  I wasn’t hungover, exactly – just weary. You know that feeling when you’ve had a bit too much to drink the night before, and not had enough sleep, and been kept awake by fitful dreams about your dead best friend and her former lover? Or a version thereof, possibly with different dreams? Well, that. I felt exhausted, like the inside of my brain had been scooped out and put in the recycling bin.

  I was considering a lengthy snooze in the car – it wouldn’t be the first time - when Edie knocked on the window. She was rapping away in a series of sharp taps that went on forever, and which I eventually recognised as a staccato form of the Strictly Come Dancing theme tune. If it’d been anyone else, I’d have told them to fox the trot off, but it’s impossible to be snippy with Edie. It’d be like kicking a Labrador puppy.

  I opened the car door, and gestured for her to get in – the sky was dark grey and the rain was gearing up to be something more serious than usual. Even the seagulls wheeling and turning above us looked worried.

  “Off to the cafe?” she asked, her Vans backpack on her lap, her body wrapped up warm in a red puffa jacket. A knitted red bobble hat was perched on her tight white curls, and her glasses were speckled with raindrops.

  I hadn’t been planning on it, but as soon as she asked the question, I knew it was probably the best thing to do. At least then someone else would feed and water me, and it wasn’t the kind of place that cared if your socks were odd. In fact, it was the kind of place that positively encouraged such things.

  She chatted about the baby, and how Becca had escaped from hospital after only an hour, and how lovely it all was, and how she couldn’t wait for the christening they’d be bound to have eventually, as it would be an ‘absolute cracker of a party’, and about Strictly, and about her great-niece Olivia who had just been named as Sausage Maker of the Year at an awards show. I try not to laugh at that one, as I can tell Edie’s very proud.

  By the time we arrive at the cafe, I am feeling utterly frazzled and in desperate need of coffee, toast, and possibly a couple of paracetamol as well.

  Cherie and Frank are there, and Cherie is manning the cafe – Laura’s parents are apparently on their way down from Manchester, and she’s taken a few days off to help with the baby, and get ready for their arrival. Willow isn’t in either, and apart from me and Edie, the only customers are a group of women in their 20s, who have pulled two tables together and are giggling over their granola. They’re not local, and they’re wearing walking gear – I decide that it’s a hen party for an e
specially wholesome bride-to-be.

  Cal has texted to say he is heading over, and that has done little to make me feel less frazzled. Last night, I’d said we could work together – this morning, I feel like that might be trickier than I thought. I’m only just settling into my rhythm in a new place, finding my feet with a new lifestyle, and now even that is changing up again.

  I nod at Cherie, give Frank a wave, and head over to the corner. To the messy bookshelves, and the colouring books, and the board games. Edie picks up a battered copy of Wuthering Heights, and is immediately immersed.

  Soon after, Cherie arrives, her hair tied up on her head in a messy bun, her face pink from the heat of the kitchen. She’s carrying a tray, and the tray is laden with edible paradise – coffee for me, tea for Edie, warm granary toast, and freshly baked scones. God bless her and all who sail in her.

  “Room for a little one?” she says, jokingly – as she is, of course, far from little. I scoot my chair around, and she sighs as she sits down next to me. She slips off her Sketchers, and stretches her long legs out, wiggling her red-painted toes.

  “I’m getting too old for this work lark,” she says, picking at a scone. “I keep trying to retire, but it never seems to take.”

  “That’s because you’re still a spring chicken, and too nosy to stay away from the action,” pipes up Edie, not raising her head from the pages. I suppose, from Edie’s perspective, that Cherie is a spring chicken – only in her early 70s and all. I’m starting to think that somewhere down on the bay, tucked away in a magical cave, is a small grotto – the kind of place that Indiana Jones might have discovered. And in that grotto is a fountain of youth – it’s the only explanation for the sprightly seniors of Budbury.

  “Missed the action yesterday, though, didn’t I?” replies Cherie, sipping her own tea and grimacing slightly when she realises it’s still too hot. “Can’t believe that! And I’ve heard that was Martha’s dad, who came along in the nick of time? And that he’s Australian? And that he’s staying in a hotel?”